Dirty Tricks
by MsBarrows
Summary: Written for an Ask Box prompt. Loghain finds his hands full trying to teach Alistair - in more ways than one. M for mild m/m smut.


**This started out to be a short Ask Box prompt fill on Tumblr, another of the rare pairs ones I've been writing this week, but quickly grew rather lengthy, since the pairing in the prompt – Loghain and Alistair – is not one you can just smush together and have it work. Ended up long enough I decided it deserved a posting of its own outside of my ficlets collection.**

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><p>The boy was getting sulky again, Loghain couldn't help noticing. He suppressed a tired sigh. He supposed the young idiot was about due for another outburst; they had, at least, been coming at longer and longer intervals than they had when he'd first dragged the drunken young sot back home from Kirkwall. He'd had to thrash him at least once daily for a while, before Alistair finally gave up on attacking him. Loghain had a lifetime's worth of dirty tricks up his sleeve, and the boy had been sadly out of shape after spending most of a year looking at the world through the bottom of a wine bottle.<p>

In the slightly over half a year since then Alistair had regained condition though, and the last time they'd fought he'd been quite canny in his attacks, coming dangerously close to beating Loghain, which worried Loghain at least a little. His current control of the boy was based solely on two things – firstly, Loghain's superior rank as Warden-Commander of Ferelden. A position he'd been landed with since the only Fereldan with seniority over him was missing at the time, presumed dead, and the only other option had been to allow an _Orlesian_ warden to take the position. And secondly, his ability to physically dominate the younger man, to _force_ him to respect Loghain's orders, or face the consequences.

He wished sometimes that he had some degree of real respect from Alistair; it would make things so much easier. But while he was wishing for that, he might as well wish that the Cousland girl had never said "look after Alistair" to him with the exact same intonation and with the same grim look of finality on her face as his father had used years before, when telling him "protect the prince". But she _had_ said it, and then ended her too-short, brilliant, brave young life to take the death stoke and kill the archdemon. And the only adequate tribute he could pay to her was to do as she'd asked.

He'd feared Alistair dead in the darkspawn invasion of Denerim for a long time, until finally a report had come in from a contact in Kirkwall, mentioning the presence of Alistair there. He'd made the crossing himself, to arrest Alistair as a deserter and bring him back. And so here they were, he and Alistair, the Warden-Commander and his damnably sulky squire.

A squire whose expression was growing ever-more mulish as he worked his way through the reading in the book Loghain had handed him, part of his lessons for today. Loghain leaned back in his chair, running the soft quill of his pen between his fingers, watching the boy. Apart from the sullen expression he was looking considerably improved since his forced return from Kirkwall; very much like his father or brother, in fact, a detail that never failed to pain Loghain at least a little. Thank the Maker he had brown eyes, not blue, making the resemblance at least a little less uncanny. That, and his hair – not Maric or Cailan's bright blond, but instead a dirty blond that verged on light brown. It was no longer as short as he'd worn it prior to leaving; it had grown out substantially during his time away, and rather than cutting it short again once he'd sobered up, he'd taken to wearing it pulled back in a stubby ponytail, in the style his previous mentor, Duncan, had favoured. Alistair was well aware of the animosity there had been between Duncan and Loghain, and had doubtless chosen the style to irritate.

Actually, if anything, it amused Loghain. It put him in mind of that apostate mage they'd taken in for a while, Anders, though _he_ had carried off the style with a flamboyancy that was completely missing in young Alistair. Anders had possessed an overabundance of self-confidence; Alistair, on the other hand, had little-to-none. Another mark against Arl Eamon, for the totally inadequate job he'd done in raising Maric's bastard son, and for ruthlessly squashing any potential the boy might have had for leadership. Loghain would – grudgingly – admit that Duncan had made some headway in correcting that lack in the boy. But then Duncan had died in that foul mess at Ostagar, and whatever good he'd done had been rather thoroughly undone afterwards.

And now here he was, stuck with trying to mend all the things that had been broken in the young man, to fill in all the gaping holes in his education, mend his manners, cure his immaturity, and hopefully somehow give the lad some adequate level of self-confidence... and not in the least sure he could accomplish any of it. The deed made all the harder by the antipathy the boy felt for him. He could understand the hatred; he'd likely have felt much the same, had their positions been reversed.

He studied Alistair's face as he scowled over the book in his hands. He wondered if the boy ever suspected just how easy it was for Loghain to read his every thought and emotion, as openly as he displayed them; far more openly than his father ever had, save in rare moments of complete relaxation. More, his expressions were so identical to his father and brother's... that fold of lines between his brows now looked so eerily like the one Cailan had always had when studying subjects he disliked that it made Loghain's eyes flick momentarily downwards, reassuring himself that the eyes were brown, not remembered blue.

Based on changing expression alone he could almost count down the seconds until Alistair finally exploded, closing the book and slamming it down on the desk; their third-last fight had at least taught him not to do things like hurling them at the wall or on the floor. "_Why_ do I have to study this... this _drivel_," Alistair snapped angrily, glaring at Loghain.

"I agree that it is drivel," Loghain agreed, voice calm and even. "Unfortunately it is also information that every lineage-obsessed minor Ferelden noble feels is vital for any other noble to know. And they are in part right," he added contemplatively. "For example, based on what you've read in that book," he asked, tilting his head slightly toward it. "If you were putting together a patrol of men for a quiet reconnoitre, would you include men from both the Bann of Jovinhelm and that of Mockinjay?"

"Maker, _no_, unless you _wanted_ to start a second civil war in the Bannorn," Alistair exclaimed, then broke off and looked thoughtful "All right," he said, grudgingly. "So maybe it's not totally useless information. Still, why do _I_ need to know all this stuff?"

"Because, Alistair, you are your father's son. And thanks to the events of the Blight Year, that fact is now widely known and people will have _expectations_ of you, whether you like it or not. As I told you when I made you my squire, your education is sadly remiss, and we must seek to amend it."

Alistair's jaw set in his usual mulish expression. "I'm no noble. I'm a Grey Warden like any other," he said.

Loghain sighed, and rose to his feet. "As am I. But what else am I?"

"The Warden-Commander." Sulkily.

"Yes," Loghain agreed, as he walked around the desk. "And what else?"

"Arl of Amaranthine."

"Correct," he said, sitting down on the edge of the desk near Alistair, and crossing his arms. "Now, if a darkspawn were to lop off my head the next time we went out on patrol, who would be my successor?"

Alistair opened his mouth, then paused, and frowned. His mouth closed again as he considered the question. "Nathaniel?" he finally hazarded.

"Mmmm. Possibly, if only the title of Warden-Commander was involved; he certainly has the skills to be such. But the Landsmeet would never accept a Howe being reinstated as Arl of Amaranthine; they only accepted _me_ for it as Anora insisted on it, and Fergus played up the fact that it was a step _down_ from being Teryn of Gwaren and Commander of the Army of Ferelden, and made me his vassal in addition to being his father-in-law. And the only other choice at the time would have been an Orlesian warden," he added with distaste. "Anyway, conveniently enough, there's another Grey Warden with even more seniority than Nathaniel, and blood arguably as noble. And that would be...?"

"Me?" Alistair exclaimed, looking panicked. He sprang to his feet, knocking his chair over backwards in his haste. "_No_, you can't make me the Warden-Commander..."

Loghain snorted, and straightened up, grabbing the young man's arm before he could retreat any further. Before he could say anything more, the youth swung at him. He cursed and ducked the blow, and found himself in yet another wild brawl with the young man. A young man who was definitely in much improved shape. He had all that damnable youthful energy and what was admittedly superior strength on his side; Loghain had experience and a vast bag of dirty tricks. It made it a rather more equal battle than he liked. He knew he had to end it quickly.

He kept his grip on Alistair's arm and stepped past him before rising up again, twisting Alistair's arm up behind his back as he did so, grabbing a handful of the boy's shirt with his other hand so that Alistair couldn't just turn out of the twist, then shoving him toward the desk, hoping to pin him. It was like trying to shove on a wall – he barely moved, bracing himself against the push.

So Loghain changed directions and yanked instead.

Alistair didn't read the change in motion quickly enough to counter it, and went over backwards, Loghain twisting to the side as he did so, spinning both of them so that the boy landed heavily on his stomach, Loghain on top of him, Alistair' arm still twisted up behind his back. He could hear the air whoosh out of the boy's lungs from the impact, and tried to take advantage of the brief stunning effect it likely had to get a more secure hold on Alistair.

But Alistair was gasping for air even as Loghain shifted position, and before he could get him properly pinned down the boy heaved upwards, almost throwing Loghain off of him. He lost his grip on Alistair's arm, and grabbed at his hair in its place, drawing a pained cry from the boy as his fingers knotted into the hair and yanked. They rolled back and forth on the floor for a couple of frantic minutes, grunting and cursing as they struggled together, knocking heavily against the furniture as Alistair tried his unscientific best to hit Loghain, and Loghain dodged what blows he could and sought to immobilize the boy.

He was tiring quickly; he just didn't have the stamina to match the younger man. He managed to get Alistair partially pinned on his back, the boy's right arm trapped under Loghain, his own left hand locked on the left collar of Alistair's shirt and his forearm pressing against the boy's throat, one leg and his right hand keeping Alistair's legs pinned down. Unfortunately that left the boy's left arm free. He saw the blow coming, and quickly turned his head to his left, pressing his head down against Alistair's chest so it hit the back of his head rather than his face. It almost stunned him, then he felt Alistair's fingers scrabbling for a grip. He kept his face pressed into the crook of his arm, denying the boy a chance at his face, but Alistair's fingers found a grip on his ear and dug in, fingernails scoring the flesh painfully. Loghain shouted, then in desperation shifted his right hand, ceasing pushing down on Alistair's left thigh and instead grabbing firmly at the bulge of flesh between the boy's legs.

He had expected it to distract Alistair; it certainly did that. Alistair froze entirely, as if he was a kitten that had just been grabbed by the scruff of the neck. His hand jerked and loosened, releasing Loghain's ear. When he didn't immediately resume the fight, Loghain cautiously lifted his head.

Alistair's eyes were wide and startled, and he was trembling just slightly. Which banished the image of a kitten from Loghain's head, and instead reminded him of the time he'd seen a horse trainer use a rather nastily effective trick on a particularly obstinate stallion. He'd bitten its ear; the horse had frozen, eyes wide, and had stood stock-still and trembled, and then been very well-behaved for a while afterwards. He doubted a single balls-squeeze would have an equally salutary effect on Alistair, but at least he'd stopped resisting for now.

"Are you going to listen to me now," he asked dryly.

Alistair swallowed and nodded slightly, then let his head fall back against the floor, eyes closing. His hand released Loghain's ear, dropping to rest on Loghain's shoulder instead. Loghain waited a beat, in case this apparent surrender was a ruse, then shifted a little of his weight off the boy's neck, and let his other hand loosen a little, though he left it where it was, ready to grab on again if it proved necessary.

"You may not want to be Warden-Commander, and Maker knows you're currently lacking at least half the skills and knowledge you'd need to make a proper job of it, but I can tell you now, if – _when_ – something eventually happens to me, it's all too likely that the job _will_ land in your lap. This whole business of making you my squire – which, yes, you _are_ rather old for – has been so that I could see to it that you receive the education you _should_ have had, and were rather stupidly never given. Which means everything you should have learned as a page and then squire in some noble's household, but which that arse Eamon never bothered with. Which means history, geography, map reading, mathematics, accounting, heraldry, battlefield tactics, strategy, supply management, politics, and proper manners, among a half-hundred other things. You _will_ learn it all, and learn it well. Do you understand?"

Alistair swallowed a second time, and nodded again, eyes still tightly shut. He was being almost remarkably calm, Loghain found himself thinking. Perhaps that old saying about a strong grip on their balls being remarkably effective for gaining someone's attention was true. He felt his lips twist slightly in an amused smile.

It was only then that he became aware of a particular physical reaction going on in the man pinned beneath him; that he had not tightened his grip again, yet the pressure against his fingers was most definitely increasing. He gave a startled look downwards and saw that, sure enough, there was a most noticeable bulge occurring down south. His eyes snapped back up, to Alistair's face, taking in the flush on his cheeks, the slight parting of his lips and increasingly hoarse breathing. In his startlement, his hand shifted slightly against the boy's crotch.

_That_ drew a reaction. Alistair's eyes flew open, his hand tightening where it lay on Loghain's shoulder, his hips rocking to press upwards against Loghain's hand. "Please..." he whispered.

Loghain stared at him, shocked. "Please what? Please _stop?_ Please do more?" he asked.

Alistair made a little needy cry, hips jerking up against Loghain's hand a second time. "_Please_," he repeated, desperately.

"Andraste's _tits_..." Loghain spat. He started to move, to sit up and move away, but the hand on his shoulder slid down his back, the boy holding him close, refusing to let him go, hips rocking against his hand again with greater urgently.

It was madness. And yet... trying not to think about what he was doing, to consider all the possible ramifications, he moved his hand again, palming against the erection in Alistair's breeches. Alistair's arm tightened around him, then the boy rolled slightly to one side, yanking his other arm free, and wrapped it around Loghain as well.

Loghain couldn't take his eyes away from Alistair's face, from the pleasure written there, as the boy rutted against his hand. No. Not boy; for he was a young man, in the first flush of his prime, and it did him a disservice to think of him as a boy, no matter how immaturely he might act at times. He was a man, a warrior, a Grey Warden... and so many other things, too.

When he abruptly took his hand away from Alistair's groin, the young man cried out in protest, arms clutching tightly at Loghain. "Hush," he growled out, and quickly undid Alistair's laces, tugging them loose enough that he could slide his hand down into Alistair's smallclothes, closing his hand around the length of flesh there. "Young idiot," he growled out. "You'd think you'd never..." he trailed off, staring at Alistair's deeply flushed face, putting together the facts he knew about his life and past. A _virgin?_ He couldn't be... what about the Cousland girl... _she'd_ certainly loved Alistair. But then he _had_ been raised in the chantry, and judging by his easy blushes at the slightest off-colour discussion among the other wardens... it was at least possible. Virgin, or so close to it as to make no difference.

Which in some ways made it all the worse that Loghain had his hand down his pants, jerking him off. And that what he was doing to Alistair was causing a rather marked tightness in his own pants as well, a heated flush in his own cheeks.

Thankfully this proved to be one area in which Alistair had very little stamina; only a few strokes later he arched and cried out, seed spurting out to stain his smallclothes. Loghain gave him a last few light strokes, until the orgasm ended, then slipped his hand out, wiping his fingers fastidiously clean on Alistair's leggings.

Just as he hadn't expected the reaction he'd gotten when he'd grabbed Alistair by the balls, he didn't expect the reaction he got next, Alistair's arms pulling him close, the young man burying his face against Loghain's shirt, and abruptly beginning to cry in a painfully heartbroken manner. Old instincts kicked in, and Loghain struggled to sit up, having to fight his way loose from the half-hysterical young man's grip in order to do so.

He somehow ended up sitting on the floor, back propped against his desk, Alistair sitting sideways across his lap, his arms wrapped around Loghain's shoulders while he cried like a child against his shoulder. Loghain's own arms were wrapped around him, one hand rubbing in circles on his back while he made soothing shushing sounds.

It brought back painful memories for him. Of holding a bitterly weeping young Cailan, when Maric disappeared on that ill-fated trip into the Deep roads with Duncan, only the first of many occasions that it had been up to him to comfort the young prince. The last of which had been just after they'd received word of Maric's death, the boy – only a couple of years younger than Alistair's current age by then – clinging to him and sobbing in equally heart-broken fashion. Except where Cailan had sobbed "Father!" over and over again, it sounded like Alistair was crying over Elissa, and Duncan.

Loghain felt his own eyes filling with tears as he remembered that dreadful day so many years ago. It had been the last time he had ever held Cailan; it had been too _important_ for the prince to be seen as independent and adult for Loghain to ever give him physical comfort again. And perhaps that had been a wrong choice, he found himself abruptly thinking, remembering the shocked surprise on young Cailan's face the first time he'd refused him a comforting hug. The betrayal in those blue eyes when he'd explained that Cailan needed to be an adult and stand alone. All his problems with the prince had started then; Cailan and his endless rebellion, his wild outbursts, his attention-seeking ways.

Even as he murmured quiet nonsense words of comfort to the young man sobbing in his lap, he found himself considering that _other_ young man, that other son of Maric's. He had, he admitted uneasily to himself, been as close to Cailan as a second father, having had a substantial hand in his raising from the time of Rowan's death onwards. Fate had taken away Cailan's real father, and then when he'd turned to Loghain afterwards... he had been rejected.

Had all Cailan's attention-seeking ways and refusal to follow Loghain's advice over the years until his death been little more than a desperate attempt to gain back Loghain's attention? Some perverse attempt to prove that he didn't _need_ Loghain's approval? The realization hurt, and yet it fit so well. He had failed Cailan, failed to give him the support he'd needed, then and later. And it had perhaps cost Cailan his life, that he'd been so desperate for Loghain's approval and affection, or to reject them, that he'd taken foolish risks, ignored reasoned advice.

Loghain's arms tightened around Alistair. He was quieting at last, his weeping down to just an occasional sniffle. His head rested heavy against Loghain's shoulder, breath gusting warm against the skin of his throat. His grip around Loghain's neck and shoulders had relaxed, one arm dropping to wrap around Loghain's waist, the other resting lax against his chest.

"Better?" Loghain asked, softly.

A very slight nod. Alistair remained silent for a long time, just sitting there in Loghain's arms. "This is nice," he murmured sleepily after a while. Then, a while later, even more quietly and broken by an exhausted yawn. "No one ever held me like this before."

And what that said about Alistair and his past broke Loghain's heart. He sat quietly, still rubbing Alistair's back gently, fighting back anger at both Eamon _and_ Maric, for what wreckage they'd made of the life of this young man. Kept ignorant, denied affection, made to believe he was incapable, unwanted... it was too much. He swore to himself then that he would not fail Alistair as he had Cailan; that whatever it took to help him to become the man he could be, that he _should_ be, to fulfil his too-long-denied potential, he would undertake.

By the time his ire finally faded Alistair was sleeping, limp and quiet in his arms. He shifted position carefully, so more of the man's weight was on the floor, rather than directly on Loghain's lap. He knew he would pay for it later, in pins and needles and leg cramps, but for now he would let Alistair sleep a little, there in the cradle of his arms. And once he woke again... well, they'd have to have a long talk.

He didn't know how things would go after that. But at least he felt some hope now that he knew what it was that Alistair most needed; the approval and affection he'd been denied for far too much of his life.


End file.
